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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, 12, al-Mawasi

For the past 24 months since I entered a proper school. That long since I heard the morning bell at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, took my seat and participated actively during my favourite class. Occasionally I still distinctly recollect the sounds and smells: chalk dust, pencil shavings, cheerful echoes. But my school no longer exists; it was struck not long after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and several classmates lost.

I was in fifth grade on the seventh of October: the final day I went to school. That early hours, alert signals blared through the halls. Some pupils sobbed, others gripped each other. Our educator attempted reassurance, but even her tone wavered. I remember wishing for a normal day; teaching, intermission, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my previous existence.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

Now I dwell alongside my parents, male relatives and sister in a crowded shelter in this coastal area. The shelter coverings move with air currents, keeping neither cold nor heat away. We queue for sustenance and drinks. Power is imaginary and personal space is absent. Optimism seems delicate.

At darkness, I look up at the stars through the gaps of my shelter and question if my friends see the identical heavens. Some reach out when they are able, saying they long for education and have kept their former exercise books; like treasures from a lost world. I feel ashamed because I’ve forfeited all of mine.

I once envisioned becoming a teacher to help local youth acquire knowledge, even when circumstances were difficult. Now I aim for being a reporter – to compose, to speak and to demonstrate the world what it signifies to be a child in Gaza. I want to narrate our accounts of apprehension and need, but also fortitude. Because even amid these conditions, amid death and ruins, our expressions persist.

When there’s some internet, I endeavor to educate myself online. On other occasions, I visit a small tent where volunteers educate us math and Arabic. The lessons are short – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in such times, I experience vitality. I recollect who I was: the young woman who cherished arithmetic and verse, who believed education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our residences, educational institutions and families. I grieved for my family member, his wife, and their children. I said goodbye to my beloved urban area, Rafah, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is education, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I say this: keep our hopes alive. Compassion isn't enough, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve books, learning environments and safety. Schooling is not a luxury, it is a fundamental entitlement. This region is not merely devastation; it is youth who still dream beneath the drones at evening. It is my story and I will persist in composing, even if the sole items remaining is a damaged writing tool and a fragment of ripped sheet.

'Pupils inquire: "Are you alright, educator?"'.

An educator, forty, instructor in a refugee camp

I have been instructing in this area for more than a decade. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and currently in the central camp in the heart of the region. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed six classes of about 40 students each, hundreds of eager students keen on education.

Educating them was my purpose and joy in life, and I still remember the gleam in a learner's look when a concept was understood; the sort of occasion every teacher lives for.

I always believed instruction should be dynamic. My learning environment was a space of play, art, and movement. We created cartographic art, dramatized bygone episodes, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as interest substituted anxiety. Indeed, even in earlier times, local youth were always frightened. My teaching space was a protected zone but after the seventh, all was altered.

My school became a shelter for families escaping the bombs. Shortly after, it was targeted and completely destroyed. There are almost no educational facilities left standing in the region now. For 24 months, everything has been abnormal. The hostilities has destroyed every aspect of our existence: protection, homes, schools, aspirations. Apprehension and mourning are constant companions.

Many of my pupils are now lost – youth who spoke of becoming physicians, creatives, and instructors. They were denied even the right to exist. Those who are still here live with starvation, eviction and weariness – and yet, they still maintain the desire for education.

Occasionally, when the connectivity permits, I hear from a small number of them. They write inquiring: “Are you safe, educator?” We exchange concise phrases, short lessons, minor flashes of connection amid the disorder. They inquire if circumstances will ever revert to standard. I inform them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and charities endeavor education wherever possible: in shelters, ruined educational areas, or crowded shelters. Schooling has become an demonstration of perseverance, a way to say: “We are still here.” And so long as we continue learning, we will persist.

Many of us are also caregivers. I am a mother of {three|several